


It's Not a Request

by MajorTrouble



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee Shops, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae & Fairies, Gen, I don't want to spoil things, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, he also knows how to defend himself, jaskier's dad is not a good person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: Jaskier's life is pretty simple. He gets up at 5.45. He opens the coffee shop at 6am. He snarks at his coworkers, he makes coffee, he steals all the muffins, he goes home, and then he does it all again the next day.Until one day he notices there's this guy, sitting in the back of the coffee shop. And he's been there for hours, and he also seems vaguely familiar. After that, things aren't so simple anymore. It's time for him to face his destiny head on, whether he likes it or not. Escaping the Fae the first time was easy. The second time, he had help. But as the saying goes: fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool my thrice...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 156





	1. Tangled footpaths

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr prompt: Hiya! I have a Geraskir prompt if you are still accepting them! I love the bakery/coffee shop au could we have some cute fluff with a side of muffins please :) 
> 
> Hi! Okay. So… Here’s the problem. I started doing super fluffy and then it got away from me and here’s the first chapter of something very VERY different. But I’m putting it here because this is the prompt that inspired it. <3 I really hope y'all like where this is going. And I appreciate your comments and kudos.

Jaskier had been eyeing the extremely quiet - extremely attractive - guy sitting by himself in the corner of the coffee shop for half the morning. He was dressed in a tight-fitting black ribbed sweater, black trousers, and had his nearly-white hair pulled into a bun at the back of his head. He’d ordered an Americano when he’d entered and another about an hour later, paying with a matte black credit card that Jaskier absolutely knew was one of those ones you only got if you were obscenely wealthy. 

His father had one just like it.  _ Nope, nope, don’t think about it. Not here and not now. _

The stranger had started off staring at his phone, but his attention had slowly shifted to watching the flow of people moving along the sidewalk outside. Occasionally some would make their way into the shop, ordering and leaving or setting themselves up in the small seating area. The man was attentive without being obtrusive, which was a very odd thing to observe from where Jaskier was standing. 

Now, it was nearly noon and Jaskier was bracing himself for the lunch rush. Tuesdays always tended to be the worst. Priscilla and Marilka had both been late coming in to their shifts and he’d had to fill the pastry case himself. They’d both started working the tills whilst he put together the coffee orders on the old espresso machine. It was easily his favourite duty - gave him plenty of time to think and brood as his hands went through the complicated motions of putting together the intricate drinks. 

There was something vaguely familiar about the man still sitting in the corner. It was an unsettling feeling in Jaskier’s chest, like he’d seen or met him before, but he couldn’t place exactly where. 

Before he could ponder it much more, the shop was soon flooded with patrons and Jaskier’s entire attention was caught up in making drinks. The next two hours easily slipped by and it wasn’t until he was pulling off his apron and tossing it in the laundry bin at the back of the shop that he thought again about the familiar stranger. 

Jaskier slung his messenger bag across his body and flung open the swinging doors behind the counter, effectively startling Marilka and making Priscilla snort in derision. 

“Well it’s been grand, but fuck you both and have a wonderful afternoon,” he smiled cheekily. 

Marilka smacked him on the shoulder as he passed her. “Ya, ya, you absolute ass. Don’t forget to bring me back my books tomorrow. Oh, and my brooch!” 

“Hmmm, maybe,” he replied. He dodged around her second attempt to smack him and filched two muffins from the day old bin on the counter. “I’m taking these and you can’t stop me.” 

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “Die in a fire, Jas,” she sighed fondly, blowing him a kiss. 

“Oh, wow, you wound me! How dare you!” His voice rose in mock outrage as Priscilla struggled not to laugh. He threw them both a little wave over his shoulder as he made his way out from behind the counter. He glanced around the shop again and was startled to see the white-haired man still sitting in the corner, stretched out in his seat now and staring out the window. Smirking to himself, Jaskier sauntered over and plopped himself down into the chair across from him, placing the cling film-wrapped blueberry muffin on the table between them.

“Muffin for your thoughts?” he said, eloquently. Now that he was closer, he could see that the other man was probably only a bit taller than him, but broader chested and more defined in the muscle department. Despite the white hair, he wasn’t old looking. Maybe late thirties? And the hands that gripped the empty porcelain cup looked huge and - were those calluses on his palms? 

The face that turned to glare at him was handsome, but obviously irritated. “What do you want?” he asked and Jaskier swore he could feel the timbre of that voice resonate in his bones. 

He shrugged, indicating the muffin. “You’ve been here all day. Thought you might be peckish. Besides,” he grinned, resting his chin on one curled fist, “I just love how you sit here and brood. Very becoming.”

The other man scowled back at him. “What do you want?” he repeated, like that answer wasn’t good enough. 

Jaskier opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the obnoxiously loud ringing of a cell phone. The scowl was suddenly directed at the phone still clutched in the other’s hand and he answered it with a curt, “Yes? Yes this is Geralt.” He turned away from Jaskier, listening intently to the voice on the other end of the line.

Jaskier sighed and took that as his cue to leave. At least he had a name for the brooding man haunting the back corner of his shop. He stood and made his way outside, squinting in the late afternoon sun. Thrusting a hand into the side pocket of his messenger bag, he shoved the other muffin inside and came out with a ridiculously oversized pair of aviator sunglasses that effectively dimmed the bright light. He glanced around and turned left, starting the walk home.

He’d lived in the city for a few years now. Which meant that he knew every shortcut and direct route that could shave minutes or even seconds off his still relatively short commute. It was the reason why he could wake up at 5.45 for a shift that started at 6am and still have two and a half minutes to spare. He wasn’t lazy, he told himself, just efficient. Navigating the tangle of interlocking alleys had become second nature to him, despite the sights and smells that sometimes greeted him. 

Today he had a song stuck in his head. One of those catchy pop things that had been on the radio for the last week or so. It was beginning to irritate him, but it was an incredibly persistent earworm and so had latched on to his brain and wouldn’t let go. So, he was humming through the chorus for what must have been the sixth time when he suddenly realized that the alley was a lot darker than it should have been. 

Frowning, he looked up and noticed the lack of sunlight slanting across the walls above him. He took off his sunglasses, glancing around in confusion. The sky above him was almost full night. Panic had started to lay tight talons in his chest as he fumbled in his bag for his phone, but when he brought it out, the screen was dark and no amount of jabbing at the power button brought it back to life. 

_ Fuck, fuck fuck, _ he thought to himself.  _ Am I lost? How the hell is it dark? I left at two! _

The alley was definitely somewhere he’d been before, so he kept walking, turning corners in a familiar pattern, seeing the busy street just at the end, but never quite getting there. His palms started to sweat as true fear bubbled up inside him. 

A noise from behind made him spin around, hands already balling into fists, feet squaring up into a defensive position. He may just be a humble barista, but five years of boxing classes meant he at least knew how to throw a punch. He was absolutely a featherweight and most definitely not going to last against anyone who really wished him harm, but he could defend himself. At least until there was an opportunity to run away.

What he didn’t expect, however, was to see the man from the coffee shop -  _ Geralt _ his brain supplied helpfully - scowling at him, sword held in a two-handed grip, the point poised directly in front of him.

Wait. Sword?

“Is that a sword?” his mouth said before the rest of him caught up. “I mean - what the fuck?” Ya, that wasn’t any better.

“Hmmm,” Geralt provided, helpfully. 

“I’m gonna need more than that, sorry.” Jaskier hadn’t relaxed his stance at all, not convinced that the imposing -  _ extremely attractive _ \- man wasn’t here to just kill him. What else was the sword for? 

“You’re being followed,” the -  _ lovely _ \- sword-holding man said. 

Jaskier barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Is it by you? Because frankly, that’s a bit obvious.”

“No. By them.” And he thrust his chin out to indicate something past where Jaskier was standing. 

Stupidly, Jaskier turned to look over his shoulder. There were two people standing there. Although, maybe people wasn’t the right word. They looked like women, beautiful, heart-stoppingly gorgeous women, but the longer he looked, the more he felt his eyes water, like they couldn’t quite focus on them. And their beauty was cold, like it was chiselled from stone or marble. 

One of them stepped forward and he heard Geralt honest-to-all-the-gods  _ growl _ from behind him. Jaskier whipped his head around to stare at him, eyes suddenly wide and incredulous. 

“Don’t,” he said. But it was directed at the two women, not Jaskier. 

The women laughed, and it was a high, bright sound, like coins dropped on pavement, but with an undercurrent of nails on glass. “You can’t stop us, Witcher. We will take him and bind him and break him. He will sing for us.” They spoke in unison and their voices sounded like the soft sighing of summer winds; the trill of birdsong; the dragging of chains.

“You can’t have him,” Geralt said through gritted teeth. “Thrice you’ve tried and thrice you will fail.”

Carefully, Jaskier moved out of the way, pressing himself against the alley wall. He suddenly felt not unlike a rabbit, caught between opposing forces that wanted to eat it: even if he wanted to run he couldn’t, lest both parties gave chase. He shivered. This was a very strange day.

Geralt stalked forward one slow step at a time, sword never wavering. The women walked up to meet him until they were a handbreadth apart from the tip of the sword. The temperature in the alley seemed to plummet as they stared at each other, never breaking eye contact. Ice formed along the length of the blade. It spread out along the wet cobbles beneath them and up the sides of the buildings. Jaskier watched as his breath puffed out in a great steaming cloud on his next exhale. He crossed his arms over his chest as the cold seemed to suddenly seep into his bones. 

Both of the women bared their teeth at Geralt and Jaskier was startled to see how needle sharp they were. Geralt bared his in return, a low growl rumbling from his chest. 

“Concede,” he said softly. “Concede your prize and tell your queen to leave the boy be.”

They seemed to contemplate this for a moment before looking at each other out of the corners of their eyes, then back at Geralt. They nodded, once, together, and turned their backs on him, heading out of the alley. The ice followed them, retreating in their wake. Geralt held his sword at the ready until they disappeared before sheathing it on his back in one swift motion. It was only then that he turned to look at Jaskier.

Jaskier, for his part, was still staring, mouth agape. He swallowed quickly as Geralt marched towards him, scowl still twisting his lips. “I - What - Do you? - What the hell was that?” Jaskier finally managed. 

Geralt crowded him up against the wall. “Doesn’t matter. Look here.” He held his hand out in front of Jaskier’s eyes, tracing his fingers deftly through the air.

“What? Why?”

There was a brief flash of light. “Because I want you to  _ forget _ .”

*

Jaskier opened the shop at 6am, coffee in hand. He greeted the usual morning rush as it came streaming through, chatting amiably with the regulars, working the old espresso machine with practiced ease. Priscilla came in exactly on time for once. Marilka ten minutes late, sheepish excuse about missing her alarm making Jaskier roll his eyes. 

“Hey, where are my books? And my brooch? You said you’d bring them back today?” she chided, poking him in the side as he tried to carefully pour steamed milk into a latte. 

“Ah! I’m sorry! Must have slipped my mind! I’ll bring them tomorrow, I promise.”

“Hmph. You better.” 

Jaskier frowned, he couldn’t really remember why he hadn’t brought her things with him today. Honestly, he couldn’t remember what he did after he left work. There seemed to be a big hazy area over that part of his memory. Strange. He could remember leaving, and then going to bed, but nothing in between. 

That couldn’t be good. Maybe he should consider seeing a doctor. Although, he seemed to be all in one piece, so at least he hadn’t gotten up to anything untoward. Probably.

Just after the morning rush he noticed a customer from earlier was still in the shop. He was an extremely quiet - extremely attractive - guy sitting by himself in the far back corner. He was dressed in a tight-fitting black ribbed sweater, black trousers, and had his nearly-white hair pulled into a bun at the back of his head. He’d ordered an Americano when he’d entered, paying with a matte black credit card that Jaskier absolutely knew was one of those ones you only got if you were obscenely wealthy. 

His father had one just like it.  _ Nope, nope, don’t think about it. Not here and not now. _

A sudden wave of deja vu followed by a shocking dizziness had him gripping the counter in front of him. He shook his head to try to clear it, but that seemed to make it worse. He vaguely heard Priscilla asking if he was alright as he pushed past her and through the swinging doors into the back room of the shop. Landing heavily in one of the old thread-bare chairs, he leaned forward, shoving his head between his knees and breathing through his nose in an effort to make the nausea stop. 

_ Why did he look so familiar? I’m sure I’ve never seen him before. What the fuck. _ But the white hair, the perpetual glower when he’d looked over at him for the fifth or sixth time, the hands around the porcelain coffee cup. It all seemed too real. 

_ Where’s his sword? _ The incredibly confusing thought made the dizziness worse and he groaned, clasping his hands behind his head.  _ Am I losing my mind? _ He thought helplessly. His head felt like it was splitting in two and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to stop it.

A commotion broke through his misery as the swinging doors burst open across the room from him. Marilka’s voice was shrill as she yelled after the approaching figure. “Sir! Sir you can’t be back here!” 

Jaskier looked up to see that familiar stranger, his glower now transformed into concern, his white hair shining dully in the overhead fluorescents, striding purposefully towards him. He met the other’s eyes and something clicked.

“Geralt?” he whispered.

“Hmmm,” was his reply as he knelt down in front of Jaskier, hands on either side of his head as he tilted his face up to look in his eyes. “I wasn’t sure. Thought I could do it again, but three times, for the same memories.” He shook his head, brow furrowing even more as Jaskier winced, another wave of dizziness hitting him. He huffed out a breath, and the warmth of it ghosted over Jaskier’s face, smelling of coffee and cinnamon. 

“What do I do?” Jaskier asked, closing his eyes. The controlled strength of those hands, the hard calluses on his palms, was doing things to him, making his chest feel tight and the breath catch in his throat.  _ Not the time _ , he told himself. _ You need to survive this first. Whatever this is _ . His teeth suddenly clenched so hard he thought they might crack and he groaned in pain, a tendon jumping along his jaw.

He watched as some sort of battle took place in Geralt’s head, written plainly across his face, before he made a decision. “Look here,” he said, holding his hand up and sketching a sign in the air. There was a brief flash of light and Jaskier’s eyes widened in recognition. “I need you to  _ remember _ .”

And he did. 

The tangled alleyway. The strangely beautiful women. The words they had spoken. “We will take him and bind him and break him. He will sing for us.” And Geralt stopping them.

But it hadn’t been just yesterday. They’d tried to take him three times. 

He remembered the words. “Thrice you’ve tried and thrice you will fail.” 

The first time Geralt had had to ask him his address before making him forget. The second time had been exactly like the third. And afterwards, Geralt had taken him to his door, carrying him up to his apartment, and guarding him through the night, a silent sentinel.

Jaskier took a great heaving breath, pushing himself back and away from the other man. All those memories crashing into him at once, freed from wherever they had been trapped, made him lightheaded, but gone was the dizziness and the splitting feeling in his head. He tried to sort through everything as his eyes came to rest on Geralt, who was sitting back on his heels now, watching him with a closed-off expression. 

“Where’s your sword?” was the first thing that came out of his mouth, because of course it was. 

Geralt huffed a laugh, mouth twitching into a grin. “I can’t really strap it to my back and walk around in broad daylight, now can I?” he retorted. “It’s in my truck.” 

“Okay. Better question - what the fuck? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say those women were not, actually, women at all? And that they wanted to kidnap me for some terrible reason? Which, to be fair, is probably something that could happen, if I’m completely honest, because I’ve been known to be a danger to myself, but - “

“Jaskier,” Geralt said impatiently. “I can explain. But not here, and not now.” He sighed, looking down at his hands for a moment before back up at him and Jaskier was suddenly very aware of how not-human those eyes were. Gold coloured and round-pupiled in the bright lights, but changing quickly when his eyes tilted downwards, nearly cat-like in their shape and intensity. 

Jaskier felt that hitch in his breath again, that tightness in his rib cage and he tried to push it down.  _ Again, not the time! _

Then Geralt said those words Jaskier had been dreading for years. More years than he cared to count. 

“You’re father sent me.”


	2. Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has daddy issues....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you for your patience my lovely, amazing, fantastic readers! Now that I am in a better headspace, I am hoping to update more regularly. <3 <3

_Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe._ Jaskier let this mantra flow through his head as he packed up his things under the concerned eyes of Priscilla and Marilka. _Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe._ He mumbled his excuses, although the pallor of his skin and the glassiness of his eyes had them nodding and making sympathetic noises. Geralt helped him up, then stood back and led him out of the coffee shop, down the street and into a parkade where an older model Land Rover was waiting. _Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe._ He opened the door for Jaskier, bundling him into the passenger seat quickly before moving around and levering himself in on the opposite side. 

They sat in silence for long minutes. Geralt’s hands squeaked against the leather of the steering wheel as they tightened into a white-knuckled grip.

_Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe._

“Jaskier - “ he started.

“Why now?” Jaskier cut him off, staring straight ahead out the windshield and at the cinderblock wall. “I mean, he’s left me alone for years. We both made it clear that this was better - easier even.” He tried to make his voice as calm and emotionless as possible, but even he could hear the anger that touched the edges of it. “There was a planned succession. He needed me out of the way, and I agreed. So, why now?” 

“Your sister is dead,” Geralt stated flatly. Jaskier whipped his head around to stare at him in horror. “It was a planned hit. They took her at the Summer Solstice, her body was found - “ he hesitated, “later.” His eyes were fixed on his hands, but Jaskier could see the tension radiating down his shoulders. “Your brother - hmmm.” He paused again before looking over at Jaskier, eyes seeming to search the other man’s face. “Something is poisoning him. Slowly. They don’t know what.”

Jaskier pressed his lips into a thin line, considering. He willed the panic and fear down from where it was trying desperately to wrap itself around his throat and strangle him. _Amarylis. You were so perfect. Father loved you best._ He thought of his sister - her quick words, her sharp mind, her brittle laugh. Her scheming and her lies. But she’d always been soft with him, gentle. His mind was having trouble grasping even the concept of never seeing her again. 

His mind shied completely away from thinking about his brother. Hiacynt was cruel. Angry. Unconsciously Jaskier’s fingers rubbed the scars on his palms.

When he spoke, he was almost surprised at how calm he sounded. “So you’re - what? Here to drag me home? Make me take their place? Because I’ve got to warn you, I’m not about to come quietly. I happen to like my life here and I’ve made a place - “

“No,” Geralt’s voice was sharp, cutting him off. “No,” he repeated, softer. He sighed, releasing the steering wheel and looking back down at his hands. “You might not like your father - “ Jaskier made a rude noise that he was shocked to see caused Geralt’s lips to lift in a wry grin. “But he wants you protected. Which, I will be the first to point out, I have already had to do. Otherwise you’d be bound in steel and enslaved to the Winter Court.” 

A sudden shiver rattled its way down his spine at those words. Jaskier hadn’t been sure, not really. It had been a very long time since he’d tangled in the politics of his father, and he’d done his absolute best to convince himself that the stories he’d been told as a child were just that - stories. Fairy tales. Legends and myths: none of it could possibly be real. He’d even gone so far as to see a therapist, talking through what he had termed “fantasy indulgence”, making it clear that the things he thought he’d seen and heard were just made up by his brain to deal with childhood trauma. 

His father was a Lord, though where that title came from and what it meant was shrouded in lies and secrets. He knew the man had a vast empire of business dealings across the Continent, but kept Lettenhove and the sprawling estate there as his home. Jaskier had grown up amongst its vast and echoing halls, until he was old enough to understand the sidelong looks he got from not only his siblings and father’s acquaintances, but also the people who worked for them. 

The looks that meant he didn’t quite belong there. That he wasn’t a true part of the family.

Now other memories were tugging at the edge of his consciousness, trying to break free. He swallowed thickly, deciding to see how far he could push. “So you’re, what exactly? Father’s hired watchdog? Here to make sure nothing happens to his bastard son?” He scoffed loudly. “I hope he’s paying you enough, at least.” 

“Hmm,” was Geralt’s only reply. He fished his keys out of his pocket and jammed them into the ignition. The vehicle turned over without protest and Geralt backed it out of the parking spot and headed out of the parkade. 

Jaskier let the silence hang heavy between them, staring out the window as he grappled with his own thoughts. 

Which is why it wasn’t until several minutes had passed before he realized they were not, in fact, headed back to his apartment, but out to a much more affluent part of town. He felt the panic start to rise in his chest again.

“Uh, hang on, where are you taking me? I guess I really should have asked that first, but I kind of assumed since you took me home the first three times, that’s where we were going again. So… This doesn’t look familiar.” He was babbling but he couldn’t help it. Had Geralt been lying? Was he actually taking him back to see his father? Or someone else in his family? _Oh gods. What if it was his grandmother? Oh fuck, oh shit, oh no_ …

“Calm down. I can smell you panicking. No one else is here. But it is a safehouse, of sorts.” Geralt’s tone was soft, like he was trying to soothe a skittish animal. However, the continued deep rumble of his voice just made it sound like distant thunder instead. 

“A safehouse?” Jaskier said, voice cracking on the last syllable. “You’re gonna lock me inside, then?” His palms were sweating again and he had to resist the urge to throw himself out of the moving vehicle to escape. The last time he’d been held against his will had been… less than pleasant. Something snagged on his thoughts and distracted him. “Wait. You can smell me panicking? What the hell?” 

Geralt sighed. Again. Jaskier got the feeling that that - along with “Hmm” - seemed to be his default response. He turned the vehicle left up to a gate, stopping at a raised keypad to type in a passcode and waited for the heavy metal grating to pull back enough to drive through. The long driveway curved up and off to the right, hiding the house from view of the road. It was a three-story structure with a wide front entrance at ground level. Honeysuckle twined its way around the long spindles and columns that held up the open porch. Big bay windows pressed out on either side, white shutters pressed flush against the red brick. 

All in all it looked like an oversized country cottage. 

Geralt stopped the Land Rover in front of the house, under the trailing arms of the huge willow tree directly across from the entrance. He turned off the ignition and paused, seeming to gather himself before looking over at Jaskier. “Your father hired me to protect you. Until such time as he discovers who killed your sister and tried to kill your brother.” His eyes narrowed. “Yes I can smell your panic. Like I can smell your distrust and anger whenever I mention your father. You do know what I am, right?”

The late-afternoon sun streamed through the back window, making his white hair glow almost golden. _Matches his eyes_ , thought Jaskier as he studied him. _Silver sword, muscular beyond all reason, must be heightened senses to smell emotions of all things - oh._

“Witcher,” he breathed out, eyebrows raised in surprise. “How did father afford a Witcher?”

The Witcher grunted at him, getting out of the truck and heading towards the house. “Guess I was desperate,” he quipped, not waiting as Jaskier scrambled out of the vehicle and hastened to follow him through the door. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”

"You can't be serious," Jaskier sputtered. “I’m not living here! I have a shop to run!” He was brought up short in his rant as Geralt turned around in the front entryway, causing Jaskier to collide with his broad chest and stumble backwards. _Oh dear gods the man smelled amazing. Like fresh rain on dry earth; like sweet summer hay; like bergamot in tea -_ He gritted his teeth and drew air through his mouth to try to shut his traitorous brain off. _At this rate I’m going to pass out from blood loss,_ he thought wryly. He did, however, stand his ground as Geralt jabbed him in the chest with one broad finger. 

“If you want to go out there and take your chances, then by all means,” he said, his voice low and careful. Jaskier met his eyes unflinchingly, but it did take an effort of will. They stayed that way for several seconds before Jaskier huffed a sigh, crossing his arms and looking away.

“Fine. But I still need to work. And what about the stuff from my apartment? I’ll need at least my guitar if I’m going to be staying here indefinitely.”

Geralt merely grunted, walking further into the house. Jaskier closed the door behind him and hurrying after the bigger man, marvelling at the warm wooden floors and softly arching ceiling above him. There were no sharp corners inside the cottage - everything was rounded and smooth. The entrance way immediately opened on either side into two rooms. On the left was a large, comfortable looking sitting room, complete with an overstuffed couch and armchair, and what looked like a half grand piano. On the right, a library, walls lined with shelves stuffed with books, and two large armchairs in the center separated by a low table facing a large fireplace. Light poured into each room through the big bay windows. Jaskier felt a stirring sensation somewhere in his gut that he couldn’t quite place. He breathed in through his nose and almost choked.

The air smelled like lush green grass and wildflowers. It smelled like the endless halls of his childhood home. It smelled like everything he’d tried to forget. He blew air harshly out through his nose to try to rid himself of the scent and decided breathing through his mouth was his best bet if he didn’t want to be overwhelmed with nostalgia.

Nostalgia. Or the creeping sense of dread and claustrophobia that threatened to overwhelm him. 

The hallway narrowed for a few meters before opening back up into a huge kitchen and dining room at the back of the house. On his right, a staircase unfurled, twisting down from the second floor and landing just as the hallway ended. He didn't have time to take in any details as he continued to follow Geralt up the stairs, coming to the first landing. The staircase wound its way up to a third floor, disappearing into darkness above him. The warm wood floors continued onto the second floor, looking old and worn but somehow comfortable. Jaskier walked in sullen silence behind the larger man, turning left down the long hallway that stretched across the center of the house. They passed several closed doors before stopping in front of a heavy wooden one at the end of the hall. Geralt fished an ornate brass key out of his pocket and unlocked it, pushing it open and ushering Jaskier inside.

The room was large, the far wall almost completely taken over by the huge window. Sheer curtains danced slowly in the breeze that blew through the open window, looking almost like a ship's sails. On his right there was a tall four-poster bed, the spindles carved to resemble oak leaves, topped with acorns. Sheer curtains hung around it in, gathered in bunches at the posts. A matching carved armoire and dresser took up most of the left hand wall, flanked by two closed doors. 

Jaskier walked slowly across the room, drawn to the window and the moving curtains. He pushed them aside to look out over the back of the property. It made him catch his breath and press his lips into a thin line. Close to the house there was a flagstone patio, canvas and wood chairs lining the edges. In the center was a large dry stone fountain, oak leaves chiselled into the granite and green and white ivy growing around the sparrow statue at the top, its wings unfurled to catch the light. A greenhouse was set further back, close to the sprawling, carefully manicured gardens. Clumps of daisies and tulips and peonies grew in artful chaos, interspersed with rambling old rose bushes and trellises covered in honeysuckle and wisteria. Beyond the garden was a dense wood, and the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, casting lengthening shadows and turning the air golden. It made something painful tug at his chest and he turned away from the window to look back at Geralt, who was still standing in the doorway. 

The Witcher frowned at him for a moment. He seemed to be considering something carefully before he spoke again. “We can go to your apartment on the weekend. Get anything else you need. Until then you _must_ stay here.” He gestured towards the closed doors to his left. “There’s a closet with clothes that should fit and a bathroom. I will get you food.” He paused, looking away from Jaskier.

Jaskier, for his part, just stared at the other man as the words washed over him. It took his brain a few seconds to catch up to what Geralt was saying and, when it did, he was striding across the room, hands raised to grab at the edge of the door as Geralt started to close it behind him. 

“No! You cannot be serious! You can’t just - just lock me in my room like some errant child!”

Needless to say, the Witcher was much stronger than him and wrenched the door out of his grasp with little effort. The door banged shut in the frame and Jaskier heard the key turn in the lock. He pounded his fist against the door, knowing it would do nothing but bruise them but feeling a white hot fury boiling up from the pit of his stomach.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s for your own safety, Jaskier. You can’t fault your father’s intentions.” Geralt’s voice was muffled as it came through the door.

“Fuck you, Witcher!” Jaskier screamed, slamming his hands against the wood. “Fuck you, and fuck my father, and fuck his intentions! This is my life, not his!” Hot, angry tears were blurring his vision now and he could feel his voice catching in his throat. He listened to Geralt sigh before the heavy tread of his footfalls followed him back down the hall. 

Jaskier turned his back to the door, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand and pulling his phone out of his pocket with the other. 

_Stupid, ridiculous, gorgeous, horrible, terrible, beautiful, fucking, Witcher!_ he thought to himself as he frantically scrolled through his contacts, looking for someone he hadn’t contacted in years. _I’m not someone’s pawn. And I’m going to solve my own fucking problems, thank-you very much._

He hesitated as he opened the encrypted texting app his contact had insisted he use. It was absolutely possible that his father really did just want him to be safe, given what had happened to two of his siblings. But in all his interactions with the man, there hadn’t been one moment, one action, one single _word_ that didn’t in some way benefit him. If he wanted to keep Jaskier safe, it was only to further his own interests.

Satisfied with his own logic, Jaskier concentrated on the message he was typing, reading it over once before hitting send with a decisive nod. 

To: Lambert

From: Buttercup

Msg: 999 - I need a favour. Extraction and safehouse. ETA?

He waited nervously for a response, holding himself still in an effort not to pace. He knew Witcher hearing was enhanced, knew that if he started to move around, or his heart rate increased too much, Geralt might be alerted that he was up to something. Taking calming, slow breaths, he leaned his head back against the door and willed himself to be still.

It worked a little. Only his hands were shaking when the return message came back an interminable amount of time later.

To: Buttercup

From: Lambert

Msg: Tracker active. ETA twenty minutes. This better be fucking good - it’s a big favour. 

Jaskier blew out a breath, smiling as he typed backed. 

To: Lambert

From: Buttercup

Msg: And it’ll be a big favour owed. Dad’s back.

To: Buttercup

From: Lambert

Msg: Well fuck. ETA fifteen minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos give me LIFE. Also, debating a rating change in the future, so please tell me if that's a thing you'd be interested in. 
> 
> Come visit me on tumble [major-trouble](https://major-trouble.tumblr.com/). I LOVE PROMPTS.


	3. Vanilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BREAK OUT TIME BABY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank-you for your patience. I really appreciate you all. Life just, gets in the way, you know? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I really REALLY like Lambert. He speaks to me on an angry asshole level I can deeply appreciate.

There was something to be said about owning a coffee shop - you met a lot of interesting people. And if they became regulars, they chatted. Sometimes they gossiped. Sometimes, they became your friend. And sometimes, they became more than that. 

Five years ago, Lambert had become a regular. He’d traded barbs with Jaskier and flirted with Marilka nearly every day for a month before disappearing for six weeks. When he’d finally returned, it was with stitches tracing a deep cut up one side of his face. Lambert had dismissed Jaskier’s concern, brushing it off as a hazard of his work. When Jaskier had prodded, coming over to the table he’d sprawled at near the back of the shop and pestered him for an answer, Lambert had grabbed the front of his apron and dragged him forward until their noses almost touched. 

“Leave it alone, Buttercup,” he’d drawled. “You don’t wanna get involved.” He released him and Jaskier straightened quickly, hands balled into fists and mouth twisted into a snarl. Lambert grinned at him lazily, teeth flashing. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? ‘Cause you didn’t want to get involved?”

That’s how Jaskier figured out Lambert knew who he was. 

Later, after the pattern of one month constant visits and weeks-long absences became routine, they became friends. Jaskier invited him out to pubs and bars and got him to talk more. Lambert was a mercenary, of sorts, hired by the highest bidder to do their dirty work. He took contracts and was paid in money and favours. 

Emboldened by drink and Lambert’s ever-present smirk, Jaskier had ranted one evening about his father and siblings and his unending contempt for them. 

Lambert shared some stories, sparse details involving kidnappings and thefts and - on one memorable occasion - breaking up a human trafficking ring. He knew Jaskier’s family business, but didn’t elaborate, keeping his knowledge behind quick wits and backhanded snark.

When Jaskier’s father showed up at his apartment unannounced one cold October evening, set on accusing his son of theft and reminding him of his place, Lambert had stood in the shadows, watching. The man had his son pinned to the wall, over-long fingers wrapped around his throat, over-sharp teeth bared in a snarl as Jaskier choked out his denial before Lambert stepped forward. He’d talked the older man down, somehow. Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure of the details as his brain hadn’t exactly been working due to a lack of oxygen, but it resulted in his father leaving and that was good enough for him. 

Lambert’s visits to the coffee shop had become more infrequent after that. Jaskier hadn’t seen him in nearly a year - hadn’t sent him a message of any kind in almost two. He’d actually been surprised with the relative speed with which the other man had answered him. 

Now, trapped in the bedroom at the end of the hall, he set a timer on his phone before walking over and throwing the curtains wide. The window was wedged open, but no amount of shoving at the edges would force it any further. He felt along the edges of it and found the nails where they’d been hammered in to keep it in place. They tingled against the tips of his fingers when he touched them. He snorted. Of fucking course. 

Curious - and to waste time - he opened one of the doors and found himself in a large, walk-in closet. It was stuffed full of clothes. Everything from smart suits to ballgowns, jeans to skirts, simple t-shirts to silk button-downs. At the very back he even found wedding attire from at least four different cultures. Western style white gowns hung next to brightly coloured embroidered saris. Tuxedos and silk and linen suits. 

It was a bizarre hodgepodge of choices. He wondered where it had all come from.

His phone beeped. One minute left. A sudden wave of nervous energy crashed through him as he moved to stand out in the middle of the room. He looked around himself slowly, trying to figure out where Lambert would come through. Before he knew it, he’d started shifting from one foot to another, staring at the door and chewing on his lip. 

There was a soft  _ click _ behind him and he whirled around. 

Lambert sat in the now open window, grinning at him. He was dressed in all black and, if Jaskier was being honest, looked kind of like someone out of a spy movie. There was another scar on his face, and his eyes looked  _ off _ somehow. “Hey, Buttercup,” he said quietly. “You ready?” At Jaskier’s nod, he motioned for him to step forward. 

Closer to the window, he could see that Lambert had a rappelling harness on and there was a line leading up from the window, disappearing past the third story above them over the roof line. Lambert pushed himself away from the window, swinging out into empty air for a moment before bracing his legs against the side of the house. 

“Okay. You gotta climb out, jump and I’ll catch you.”

Jaskier blinked at him. “You’ll what now?”

Lambert smirked. “What? Don’t trust me now, Buttercup? I’m gonna take us down to the ground, then we gotta sprint through the woods. I’ve got a car waiting on the other side of the golf course.”

This was Lambert’s plan? “This is your plan?” he hissed skeptically. “There’s a fucking Witcher downstairs and you’re gonna have me sprint through the woods?”

He watched as Lambert’s expression flickered from his usual smirking sarcasm to a hard, angry one he’d only ever seen once before. “You didn’t tell me there was a Witcher here,” he growled, his voice suddenly dangerous. Jaskier’s eyes went wide. “Why is there a Witcher here?”

“Uh - “

“You know what? Never fucking mind. Jump out the window Buttercup, before I change my fucking mind and leave you here.” The tone of his voice brooked no argument, so Jaskier swallowed whatever he was going to say and scrambled up onto the window ledge, glancing down once before launching himself across the intervening space and into Lambert’s waiting arms. He wrapped his legs around the other’s waist and arms around his neck as Lambert used his momentum to swing away from the house. Jaskier felt him release something below them on the harness and they slid down the rope, dropping to the ground. 

As soon as Lambert’s feet hit the ground, Jaskier disentangled himself and stood back. Lambert’s expression was still angry and closed off and Jaskier wisely kept his mouth shut. His rescuer quickly unhooked the rapel line and stepped out of the harness, stood back from the house and flicked his wrist twice. The rope went slack and fell from wherever it was hooked on the roof. 

Jaskier felt his jaw drop open. “How - “ he started before Lambert glared at him and he cut himself off. The rope was quickly wound back up and slung over his shoulder before Lambert grabbed his arm, dragging him off to the side of the house, out of direct line of sight of any of the windows.

The sun had nearly set now. Long dark shadows from the fountain and trees stained the ground as twilight settled in. Lambert stood still, head cocked to listen. Satisfied, he grabbed Jaskier’s arm again, dragging him forward and pushing him in front as they started jogging towards the back of the property. They skirted around the edge of the huge garden. Lambert kept throwing furtive glances behind and around them, eyes darting to catch any movement. 

Jaskier’s heart was hammering in his chest as he picked up the pace, desperate to put as much distance between himself and the house as he could as fast as he could. His footfalls seemed distressingly loud even to his own ears, but he moved quicker as Lambert prodded him from behind. 

Finally, after what seemed like the longest few moments of his entire life, they broke through the tree line. Lambert sprinted past him and he redoubled his efforts to go faster, following the other man as he dodged through the trees. The light was nearly gone, but it didn’t really hinder his eyesight: he could easily pick out the motion of Lambert racing in front of him. His lungs, however, were reminding him that he wasn’t a runner, as the air burned his throat. Determined, he gritted his teeth and pushed himself forward. 

The forest eventually stopped abruptly and they found themselves on the edge of a golf course. Jaskier doubled over, hands on knees as he tried to even out his breathing. Lambert, for his part, barely looked winded. He glanced around them, head cocked and nostrils flaring. 

Suddenly he grabbed Jaskier’s arm, practically throwing him onto the green behind him. Jaskier yelped, barely catching himself from tumbling ass over tea kettle and instead landing on his hands and knees, facing the woods. He was just in time to see Geralt burst through the trees, only to stumble to a stop, eyes wide in shock.

“What - Lambert? What are you doing here?” he asked, incredulous. His hands came up as the shorter man growled at him and stepped forward. “Woah! I’m not your enemy!”

“Oh really? Not my fucking enemy? Working for fucking Lettenhove and not my enemy?” Lambert snarled at him. “Locking up the fucking kid for what? ‘Cause his daddy says so?”

Geralt looked back and forth between Lambert and Jaskier, confusion writ plain on his face. “I was hired to protect him. This was - “ he blew a breath out through his nose, clearly frustrated. “This isn’t whatever you think it looks like.”

Lambert laughed, a hollow, brittle thing. “When Buttercup has to ask me to fucking rescue him from a locked room, what do you think it looks like?”

The Witcher paused for a moment, his brow furrowed as his hands dropped to his sides. “Buttercup?” he asked, then shook his head and glared back at Lambert. “You need the whole story before you make a decision.”

At this point Jaskier had heard enough. “Fuck this,” he snarled, drawing both of their attention back to him as he stood up. He glared at Geralt. “If you truly want to protect me, then you’ll let Lambert do the job I’m paying him for. Maybe you’ll consider your own morals,  _ Witcher _ , the next time you need money.”

There was silence for a moment before Geralt huffed out what, to Jaskier’s incredulous ears, sounded like a laugh. He turned back to Lambert. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

Lambert suddenly looked very sheepish. “Uh - “

“Know what, Lambert?” Jaskier asked, voice suddenly small. He knew the answer before either of them spoke. It should have been obvious to him, but he’d just so desperately wanted a friend. 

“He’s a Witcher.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and blew out a breath. “Fuck,” he sighed. Looking between the two men as they eyed each other up, he made a decision. Probably not the best one, but if there was one thing Jaskier was known for - outside of running the coffee shop - it wasn’t well thought out planning. 

He huffed another sigh, turned, and bolted off across the golf course. Geralt let out a truly impressive growl behind him, but Lambert was yelling something that got drowned out by Jaskier’s own panting breaths.  _ Right. Not a runner. I’ll need to do something about that _ , he thought to himself.  _ If I survive this, that is. _

Surprisingly, he made it to the clubhouse unmolested, and a quick glance behind him showed no sign of the two Witchers. 

_ Two _ Witchers.  _ Should have figured that out at some point. Gods, what would grandmother say if she saw me now? Probably feed me to her hounds. _ His idle thoughts still made him shiver.

Standing in the shadows of the doorway to the clubhouse, Jaskier waited until he had his breathing under control again before surveying the parking lot. There were very few cars left as the night drew closer: hard to see a tiny white ball in the dark. However, right near the front doors was a grey pickup truck complete with matching grey cap. Looking around, trying to be as casual as he could, he walked over to the truck and glanced in the cab. Several road atlases were strewn across the bench seats in the back, along with a handful of receipts. He moved around to the covered truck bed and tried to peer in through the tinted glass. This looked more promising - he could just make out several black cases and what could be a sleeping bag. 

He tried the handles on the cap’s back window and was surprised to find them open. Glancing around again, and finding the lot still empty of people, he lifted the window and slid himself into the bed of the truck, carefully re-latching it. Around him were several hard-sided black cases stacked on top of each other and strapped with bungee cords to the sides of the truck. In the center was a long narrow wooden pallet topped with several blankets and the army green sleeping bag he’d spotted earlier. He was taking a chance, but this seemed like the kind of setup Lambert would have. 

Sighing, he wedged himself down between the tailgate and the edge of the pallet, covering himself with a blanket and waiting. 

He must have dozed off, because the sound of the truck’s engine turning over made his whole body jerk before his mind caught up and he froze in place. Voices filtered over top of the noise of the rumbling diesel, and he relaxed as he recognized Lambert’s voice. 

“Look, Geralt, it’s really simple - I don’t fucking care. Buttercup asked me to break him out. I broke him out. Where he is now is not my problem.”

There was an almost uncomfortably long silence before Geralt answered. “So you won’t help me.” 

Lambert snorted. “Fuck no. You’re the one who took a contract with Lettenhove. You gotta deal with those Fae bastards now, not me. And good fucking luck telling them you lost their estranged son.” Jaskier felt him throw the truck into gear as it lurched backwards. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him!” he yelled out cheerfully.

“No - don’t do that - “ Geralt yelled back as Lambert laughed. 

“Whatever. Good luck!” 

“Fuck you, Lambert,” came the reply, though it sounded oddly fond. Jaskier tucked that information away for later. It was clear the two knew each other, at least, and had dealt with the other in the past. He wondered exactly how their paths had crossed.

Jaskier settled back under the blanket as the truck drove through the city. It took him a while, but as the sound of traffic began to die away, he realized they were heading further out into the countryside, out of the city proper. Lambert drove along badly paved country roads for nearly an hour before they came to a stop and he turned off the engine. 

Jaskier steeled himself for the inevitable discovery. He listened as Lambert stepped out of the truck, walked slowly down the side and then stopped. 

Faintly, he heard, “Oh for fuck’s sake,” before the cap’s window was swung open and Jaskier’s blanket was stripped off him. 

“Uh - “ Jaskier started, but Lambert was already laughing. He flipped the tailgate down and helped him out of the bed of the truck, hindered by his own inability to draw breath. 

“It’s not that funny,” Jaskier tried, though his lips were beginning to quirk up at the edges. 

Lambert dragged a hand over his face and took a deep breath before breaking into another loud peel of laughter. He shook his head and Jaskier waited patiently for him to stop, crossing his hands over his chest and quirking an eyebrow. 

“Okay, it’s not that funny,” Lambert agreed when he could speak again. “But you outwitted the fucking White Wolf. I’m never going to let him hear the fucking end of this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you again for reading. Please leave a comment and/or tell me your theories! I do love reader input <3

**Author's Note:**

> As always, let me know what you think please. Comments and kudos are my life blood. <3 <3
> 
> Come find me on tumbr major-trouble.tumblr.com


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